To the Named

This day felt special from the very beginning. During my morning meditation, I already sensed that a decision awaited me. It was Ta’Alaq at sunrise, during Yuri’s shift. I admired the rising sun for the twenty-third time—something that will never grow old for me. My time in the Shadowfell had drained me of so much warmth and color, but here, with each sunrise, I feel as though I reclaim a piece of it—joy and vibrance returning to me in small but precious measure. I offered Yuri my help, yet he was content on his own, so I wandered into the city. As usual, I made my rounds through the streets until I met my calligraphy teacher, Sonnet Grich, for our weekly lesson. When the hour was done, I felt a quiet pull leading me toward the Dhakira—to the Sea of Memories. It is a place of tranquil beauty, its waters mirroring a perfect night sky, untouched by the hour of the day.
Today it felt truly unique—charged with a sense of connection, as though every step of my journey had brought me here. I held a Tasmia in my hand, Lemenet's Tasmia The stone was cold and silent, yet a sudden draft teased the line of my jaw, bringing with it a pang of childish nostalgia—of a time when I had still held similar dreams of hope and familiarity and belonging. yet my thoughts dwelled on duty, on vows, on something missing in the weave of memory.
 
And there it was—this vellum card in my grasp, carrying with it an invitation:
To You, the Named and the Nameless: The Blind Storyteller bids you join him at the Market of Melodies, Last Bell.
 
I went at once to the Ta’Alaq to gather my belongings. Only Lordi was there, of course—who else? Yuri was never at home at that hour. In my haste, I even forgot to tell Lordi that I had given the ladies of the house leave for the day. (I truly do wonder why he never steps beyond the Ta’Alaq’s walls.)
And so I set out for the Market of Melodies. Upon reaching Makira, I was met by a familiar sight—Yuri. He, too, had been invited. We exchanged the usual small talk and wondered about the next hour. Even now, I have not managed to find the right way to reach him. There are too many secrets he carries, too many things he refuses to speak of. It makes him difficult to truly know. Still… perhaps, in time. On the passage across to the Market, a man introduced himself through rhythm before he did with words—playing a lively beat upon a drum. His name was Frederick Austerlitz. For a brief moment, his music allowed us to dance away the weight of life’s seriousness.
When we arrived at the Market, we were thirteen in number—a truly magical count. Among us stood Diamante, Frederick Austerlitz—the human drummer, Yuri—also human, Aurelie Mor’ta—undead, perhaps, Steam—the genasi, Alizée—genasi as well?—and myself. Facing us, as if by design, were six others: an ogress with a drow at her side, a half-elf with Cravin the halfling, a water genasi, and a goblin clad head to toe in full plate.
We were all beckoned into a tent that had appeared as if from nowhere. Within, seated before us, was the Blind Storyteller—an echo out of desert legend. He spoke to us of The Forgotten Prince. I knew fragments of this tale already, though from the prince’s own perspective—it had once been one of Sonnet’s transcription lessons for me. But the telling ended abruptly. Mistress Diamante, declaring the Storyteller a traitor, laid her hand upon him. At her touch, he shattered into ice. And then the world itself seemed to turn against us—the chill, the elements, all lashing out with malice. We fled northward by boat, forced to let the other six choose their own path, those who were not bound to us by fate’s weaving. At last, back within the Ta’Alaq, we found rest. For Steam, it seemed like fate that we should meet—or so it appears. He is the born tea-brewer. I must still see to it that he signs the contract and begins his place within the Ta’Alaq. In the short night we had, we grew to know each other a little better.
 
Notes to self:
Aurelie Mor’ta… she is remarkable. Undeath clings to her, yet it feels as though it is her destiny—this state of being. What happened four years ago, on the day of her death? What plans do the gods have for her, and the Matron of Ravens? I have, in any case, offered her my room. Should Snoodle not devour her, she surely walks a powerful path, a fate bound tightly to her.
Tamasha Alizée Aella Zephyr—she does her house every honor. Her nobility shows in her bearing, in her face, in her deeds. She reminded me, briefly, of times long past. She has, without a doubt, a gift for ice-creatures—by morning, one had already appeared at her side.
Siham Jal’Zuun or Steam… it seems he has not seen much of the world, yet he was born into the right circles.
Yuri—at last Yuri revealed something of himself: this panda-thief and lion-slayer… (I cannot help but laugh).
And Frederick Austerlitz—he seems to be a known artist, a dancer from Karam. He remained truly reserved, yet in such an open manner that one hardly noticed he revealed nothing of himself. Is it caution? Should I be more cautious as well? Or is it mistrust?
 
I tidied everything and prepared the Ta’Alaq for the morning when I noticed strange frozen markings as I was putting away a teacup. Perhaps my new companions can help me understand them.
 
—Oro’thion